


Sear: Extension

by WhimsicalEthnographies



Series: Sear [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bottom John, Fluff, John tops from the bottom, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Mostly Sweet, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post HLV, Rimming, Smut, They love each other, Top Sherlock, a bit angsty, i could really go for some samosas right now, sherlock POV, they still Sherlock is a girl's name each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 02:00:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5398610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalEthnographies/pseuds/WhimsicalEthnographies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John removes the plate from his lap and places it on the particle-board table in front of us.  He leans back and wraps his other arm around me.  I bring my legs up, tucking them against his lap.  I want to be surrounded by John, entirely.  His warmth is magnetic, drawing me in.  He’s been drawing me in since that first day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sear: Extension

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel of sorts. I may do a third, I dunno.
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit-picked, because I am An Island and also a lazy piece of shit.
> 
> Also, SHAMELESS PROMOTION: follow me on tumblr if you are so inclined. [whimsicalethnographies](http://whimsicalethnographies.tumblr.com/)

My chest is drying sticky and cold and it’s beginning to itch, but I couldn’t possibly be bothered to move. John’s fingers are in my hair and the muscle of his thigh is hard and strong under my head. I can hear his heart thundering in his chest, more slowly than a few moments ago. Every few minutes he huffs a great breath, exhaling hard.

We haven’t spoken a word since he arrived at the dingy flat that is currently my residence. It’s been two weeks since we last saw each other, although Mycroft did at least provide him with a disposable burner phone with which to contact my burner phone. Mycroft has also provide several deliveries of decent furnishings and comforts, which I’ve refused to thank him for. A couch that doesn’t smell of mothballs, larger bed, and a decent television center (does he know me at all?) do not make up for being a prisoner in a strange bedsit with an ankle monitor strapped to me.

But John is here now, which makes the tiny, dingy flat much more palatable. We’ve texted daily since the last time he was here—or rather, he texted, ridiculous emoticons and sickening platitudes (which I’m loathe to admit fill my belly with a warm, rather crampy feeling that is not at all unpleasant)—interspersed with whatever meager information he can pass along on Mary. But we haven’t seen each other, John playing the role of dutiful, forgiving (if still rather put-out) husband while I remain in hiding, invisible from all but him and Mycroft. Even Gerard and Molly and Mrs. Hudson are only aware that I’m safe, not of where I am.

That doesn’t matter now though. The plan doesn’t matter, our friends don’t matter, and _stupid_ Mycroft with his _stupid_ platitudes and consolatory gifts don’t matter. All that matters is that John is cradling me in his arms, his fingers in my hair and our mingled semen drying on my chest (which interestingly enough, has hurt considerably less in the last two weeks). He’s all that matters. He’s all that will ever matter.

“The curry is getting cold,” he says finally, fingernails scratching against my scalp. Those are the first words either of us has spoken since he arrived, duffel bag in one hand and two plastic bags in the other, both of which were dropped with a thud on the floor once he kicked the door closed. His jeans and jumper are mingled with my t-shirt and pajama pants on a path to the small bedroom.

“Don’t care,” I grumble and twist in his embrace, seeking out the warmth of his skin. John’s torso is delightfully hard with a thin layer of softness over it, and he smells wonderful, like soap and sweat and something warm and earthy that I’ve only ever smelled once before, the last time he was here. “Missed you.” I can hear the whistle of air in his lungs as I press my face into his ribs. The dusting of blond hair on his chest tickles my forehead.

“I could tell,” I can feel John press a kiss into my hair. “Liked that, did you?”

“Obviously,” I curl in tighter against John’s body and mouth at the skin just below his nipple. It’s unfathomable that I’m able to do this. Or that John just brought us to simultaneous orgasms by straddling my hips and clasping our erections together in his hand. I still worry this will just be another dream, or a hallucination. That maybe I did go to Serbia and now I’m in a coma in a foreign embassy hospital and these moments are a few comforts my brain is providing before it dies.

But as far as I can tell, they’re real, even if I have trouble believing it.

“Missed you too, love,” I feel my face flush at John’s endearment. I’m not used to it; I don’t think I ever will be. Even if we live for a thousand years. “But, the curry is still getting cold.”

“You brought a duffel bag,” I remember the leather shoulder bag on the floor next to the curry John is so hatefully preoccupied with instead of me and our (hopefully only temporary) bed. Our real bed is across the city on Baker Street, waiting to be sinfully christened. My stomach clenches at the thought of smelling John and sex and semen in familiar linens.

“I did, genius,” John lays his cheek on my head. “Mary is spending the night with a _friend_.” I can hear his incredulous sentiment on the word ‘friend.’ Instantly my mind sparks alive, and the fog of oxytocin and dopamine clears. I pull away and push myself up on my elbow. Mary leaving their flat to go anywhere is cause for concern.

“A ‘friend?’ She just left? We should text Mycroft, who knows where…”

John must see the rising panic in my face (I can certainly feel my heart starting to pound in my chest and the faint rise of bile in my throat) because he smiles and reaches for my face.

“Sherlock, relax,” he learns forward and kisses my lips gently. It’s remarkable calming, despite my continuously rising panic. “Remember, she’s playing a game as well. Helen actually came to the flat and picked her up. Helen, from the wedding? Something about ‘one last girls’ weekend before the baby.’”

“Oh,” I can actually feel relief flood my system. Mycroft has extensively researched Mary’s connections; Helen is a pure as snow and only a pawn in Mary’s game.

“We have all weekend, my love,” John smiles sweetly, affectionate and a little predatory, then kisses me again. I will never tire of his lips. “And…her going away rather helps confirm another one of my suspicions.”

“What?” I hear myself say absentmindedly, still staring at John’s mouth. I want his lips back, now that the jolt of adrenalin is seeping away.

“There’s no baby,” John says darkly as he pulls me back into his embrace, tucking my head under his chin. My tacky chest presses against his, marking him with our shared mess. His words, however, are a shock.

I don’t answer, unsure what to say. I’m rubbish at these sorts of situations, and while John has always been rather understanding of my shortcomings, I don’t know if he will be so while discussing his (possible) child.

Thankfully, John keeps talking, expounding on his theory. “Too many things don’t add up. The timing, her age, supposedly she was taking oral contraceptives that she ‘forgot to take two times,’ unbeknownst to me at the time, she won’t let me near her—which I don’t want anyway, but it’s still odd considering who she’s trying to be—and the other day I saw her put away almost £50 worth of sushi. TUNA rolls. Sherlock, I know one or two doesn’t hurt, but it was just…odd. Too much is off. I’m a doctor, for Chrissakes. A good one. I know pregnancy. Also, that woman only goes to the bathroom three times a day and she falls asleep immediately. She is not pregnant.”

“Oh,” I can’t think of anything helpful to say. It’s honestly a shock, not something I was expecting. Sentiment really has made me blind. I had perhaps considered Mary allowed herself to become pregnant to ensure John wouldn’t leave, or even perhaps that the baby would belong to some other man, but it boggles my mind that she would fake a pregnancy. Of course, it shouldn’t, as Mary has faked nearly every other aspect of her life. What’s a fake baby to someone like her? I feel a small ping of sadness I wasn’t expecting—after all, the baby would have been half John and how could I not want something that was partly John?—as well as a growing sense of uneasiness. “You have my sympathy John, however I feel I have to point out that her due date is relatively close, meaning—”

“Meaning whatever she’s up to is probably going to drop soon?” John finishes for me. Conductor of light indeed. The other half of me. “Yeah, I thought of that. Which is another reason why I don’t want to be anywhere other than here, now.”

It’s silent for a few minutes. John keeps me tucked against his chest, fingers stroking my neck and bicep. The pure sentimentality of what he just said—wanting to be here, with me, in light of the deduction that his child doesn’t exist and that the danger surrounding us is soon to be increased exponentially—is rather overwhelming. Of course I don’t want him to be anywhere else either, in any situation, but it’s still shocking and profoundly moving that he may feel the same.

“I don’t mean that you’re only an escape,” John says, seemingly mistaking my silence for trepidation. “It’s just, this is where I want to be. And I’d want to be here even if the world wasn’t crumbling around us.”

“I know what you meant, John,” I press closer, wrapping my arm around his back, pressing my fingertips into the sturdy muscle. “And for what I’m worth, I’m sorry. You would have made a good father.” It’s true. John is a caretaker straight to his heart, and while I resented knowing that a baby would keep him away from me more than anything else ever could have, it warmed my heart to think of him caring for a child. Especially since I know the joy of being on the receiving end of his care.

“Maybe, but we would have been shitty parents. I hate her, Sherlock…and now, we can do this cleanly. No mercy, no remorse. We can end this.”

“Yes,” I press a kiss against his neck. Utter destruction. It’s a nice thought.

“We should shower. You’re a mess.”

“Mmm,” I’d really rather not move, for the first time in my life finding something that’s worth being still for.

“Come on, you git. Shower.”

****

Showering with John is an entirely unique experience. I always enjoyed showers; they are a lesson in efficiency. The release of cleaning away the dirt of the day combined with unencumbered time to _think_. But with John there, pressed together in the surprisingly large tub—it’s an old building, and much like our (it is _ours_ ) flat it is equipped with an old, Victorian-style claw foot club—It is beautifully new. He washed himself first, and is now running slick, soapy hands over me gently, washing my body with the utmost tenderness. I relish the smooth slide of his fingers over the bullet wound on my chest, tracing my ribs to reach around and glide over the scars on my back. His touch is so gentle, so loving, and I’ve never felt anything like it before in my life. I’m almost secure in the knowledge that he does, indeed, love me.

John chuckles into my neck as I lean back against him, soaking in the alien sensations of being singularly loved. The mood changes, however, when John’s perfect hand reaches between my buttocks, soaping my perineum and up my gluteal cleft, his fingers gently circling around my anus. I let out an involuntary cry, guttural and wanton, and I feel almost as if I’m sullying the perfect, soft intimacy of John’s ministrations as my penis immediately twitches to attention.

“Heh,” John merely chuckles when I attempt to apologize, my voice barely squeaking out of my throat. “Already? My, my.” His index finger circles my anus once more, then his hand reaches around and grasps the base of my penis. The noise I make is downright embarrassing.

“Oh.”

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John mouths at my shoulder. “I still need a good twenty minutes and here you are, ready to go.” He spins me around, allowing the hot stream of water to run down my backside, washing away the soap. “Interesting.” John pushes up on his toes and kisses me, surprisingly chaste, considering his hand is still wrapped around my penis. “Up against the tile,” he murmurs against my mouth. “You may want to brace yourself.”

“I-I’ll g-get water on the f-floor…” I am rendered stupid by how John is affecting me right now.

“Fuck the floor,” John turns me again, letting go of my penis to grasp each wrist in his hands and maneuver them so my hands are pressed against the cool tile wall. Streams of water run down my forearms, dripping onto the old, mildewy floor where the shower curtain doesn’t fully enclose us. Behind me, John drops to his knees. His lips and teeth find my left buttock.

“Oh.”

“Alright?” John’s hands spread me gently; I can feel his hot breath ghosting over my cleft.

“Yes, J-John,” I swallow and am rendered mute when I feel John’s tongue probing at my anus. Like the last time he did this, I’m nearly overwhelmed by the filthy intimacy of the act, of the fact that John is pleasuring me like this, and my penis throbs painfully, now at full attention. His perfect hands massage and pull at my buttocks while he sucks and licks obscenely at me.

“Mmmhmmmhmmm,” John chuckles against me, his voice vibrating up through my perineum into my core. His tongue dips inside me and I jerk, my toes slipping against wet porcelain. “Careful, love,” John whispers into me. He reaches around and grips my penis again. “Don’t want you to slip and break your neck when my tongue is in your arse…”

“Oh—ah, oh, God…” John starts to stroke and my mind blanks. Heat is building in my gut, and my testicles start to ache as John squeezes my penis hard while his tongue continues to work against and inside me. Before I realize it my body is seizing, and I open my eyes to watch my semen splash against the tile wall while John’s hand wrings around my erection. My knees start to buckle but John is on his feet in an instant, catching me around the waist to hold me up.

“You have any idea how gorgeous you are when you come?” He whispers, lips on my shoulder and my neck and my ear while I pant.

“J-John…” I pant, my forehead leaning against the cool tile. The floor will be a mess.

John only laughs and kisses my ear again. “Come on. Let’s do our hair, then dinner. That curry must be congealed by now.”

“Fuck the curry,” I exhale hard, reaching for John’s hand to anchor me.

****

We sit pressed together on Mycroft’s new sofa, each wrapped in one of my dressing gowns and sharing a plate of chicken tikka masala and rice and samosas. The curry John was so hatefully fixated on sits on the table in front of us, waiting to be opened. John swims in my blue dressing gown with the bullet hole in the sleeve, but he is heart-wrenchingly adorable, and I can’t help but lean in to kiss his stubbly cheek, still chewing a mouthful of chicken. John cups the back of my head and turns his face so our lips meet, his mouth full of saucy rice.

“There’s a gross baby bird joke here, I think,” John says after he swallows. My face must register my confusion because John leans in and kisses me again. “Nevermind.” His mouth tastes like tomato and saffron.

“This is how it should be,” I say before I can stop myself. It sounds hopelessly desperate in my ears. I feel the familiar burning just below my sternum, but it’s just a tingle, shadow of what it used to be.

“I know, Sherlock,” John strokes my cheek. “It will be, I promise. Soon.” He kisses me again. I tuck my face into his neck. “You need to finish your dinner.” His voices sounds strangely shaky.

“Food tastes better when you’re around,” it appears as though I will continue to say hopelessly desperate things. “It always does.”

“Well,” John’s voice still sounds shaky. “I did get you to gain two stone, so...” he sighs heavily, and presses his nose into my hair. He takes several deep breaths. “After you came…after, I won—wondered if you were eating enough,” John inhales hard several times. I can feel him shudder against me. “I worried.”

“John…”

“Every night I worried, Sherlock,” his arm wraps around my shoulder. “One night I convinced myself that I could get you to move in with us. Just so I could make sure you were alright. Make sure you ate and slept,” he laughs, but it is a wet, mirthless laugh. “I spent so many hours, wondering if you took care of yourself while you were away. How many cigarettes you smoked, how many nights you went without sleep.” One of John’s fingers trails up my back, tracing a particularly long, nasty scar that came from a fish knife. I hate that scar more than the rest; almost two years later it’s still dark and inflamed, the result of an infection I let go too long. If John had been there, that wouldn’t have happened. I wonder if he’s thinking that too. In fact, I’m sure he is, as he continues to trace the lines on my back, evident even through my dressing gown.

“I tried,” I turn my nose into his neck. I want my words to offer him some sort of comfort. I’m not lying, not really. “I wanted to come home. So I tried.”

John removes the plate from his lap and places it on the particle-board table in front of us. He leans back and wraps his other arm around me. I bring my legs up, tucking them against his lap. I want to be surrounded by John, entirely. His warmth is magnetic, drawing me in. He’s been drawing me in since that first day.

“You’ve lost weight since Christmas,” John rubs at my knee. “What have you been eating?”

I shrug. “Whatever Anthea brings, usually.” I pick at his dressing gown. My dressing gown.

“Could you try and eat a little more for me?”

Wordlessly, I reach forward and take a samosa from the plate on the table. It hits me then, in that moment, that John’s love is not a new development, and perhaps I shouldn’t have been so surprised by his confession. John has been loving me in different ways since that first day. It’s only now, that he’s cradling me in his arms in an unfamiliar flat, that I start to see what all his (not always so) gentle chiding had been at its core.

Frankly, I think I greatly prefer John picking at my eating habits when I’m practically sitting in his lap.

“Good boy,” John chuckles, and stretches his neck forward to snag the last bite of samosa in his mouth. His lips close around my fingertips briefly when he closes his mouth; they tickle delightfully as he pulls back to chew. “Eat another,” he mumbles around a mouthful of spicy potato. I snag another and bite into half of it, raising the other half to John’s mouth. He rolls his eyes, but takes the offered bite. His left hand slips from my knee to stroke the inside of my thigh. My skin sizzles and sparks as his calloused fingertips rub against me.

“Oh,” I can’t help myself; my voice is raspy and high-pitched.

John practically guffaws around his samosa. His fingertips press, enough that I know I will have purple marks inside my thigh in the morning, and I feel a flush of warmth flood down my belly to collect between my legs. My hips jerk involuntarily; I’m unused to such responses. It’s profoundly embarrassing, but John appears delighted, because he laughs again and his fingers dance higher up my leg.

“You like that?” He teases, and reaches forward to pluck another pastry from the plate on the table. I tuck my face into his neck and nod. My cheeks are burning. “Eat another, love, and we can go back to bed.” I take the samosa from him and bite into it, but it suddenly tastes bitter and acrid as the knowledge that this will end again in less than two days. John will go back to his flat again, and we’ll be stuck with furtive texts until he can sneak away again. He’ll go back to living in the viper’s den and I’ll be stuck here, riddled with endless worry that Mary will know, or some other force will make her act.

I hate it, being stuck in this limbo, having been able to taste everything I’ve wanted for so long, unable to get my fill. If I ever could have my fill of John, which I sincerely doubt. I can’t help but shiver as I force myself to swallow.

“You cold?”

“No,” I whisper, my head still tucked against John’s neck, and his hand still stroking the inside of my thigh.

“Hmmm,” John nudges his shoulder up, pulling back and imploring me to look at him. What I’m feeling must be written on my face because the lines in his forehead deepen, and he suddenly looks tired and years older, but his eyes grow remarkable soft. He leans forward and kisses me gently, just a ghost of a kiss. “Finish that. Then teeth. I want to go back to bed, Sherlock.”

****

My arms are shaking as I try to hold myself above John. He’s lying on the cheap mattress beneath me, his knees digging into my waist and a slightly pained, but genuine, smile on his face.

I think (if I could effectively think) he’s enjoying my being overwhelmed, which I want to find irritating, but I can’t, not like this.

It is overwhelming, being sheathed in John’s body like this. I was shocked, that he would want this, that he’d even be _willing_ to do this, that he breathed hot and heavy in my ear, _“fuck me, Sherlock.”_ He guided me with infinite patience, drawing my fingers and mouth over his body, inside, slowly. Teaching me and allowing me to feast on the only thing I’ve ever truly hungered for.

He is hot and tight, slick with lubricant (he is brilliant, and remembered to pack some), and the muscle of his sphincter is twitching and clenching around my throbbing penis. I can feel his (still) fully erect penis brushing against my heaving belly. I can still taste his pre-ejaculate on my tongue.

“You like it?” John’s voice is breathless and strained, but still slightly teasing. His fingers dance on my shoulders. I nod. A drop of sweat lands on John’s collarbone, runs down his chest to get lost in the light, downy hair on his pectorals. His own sweat glistens on his temples. I want to lick it off but am afraid to move, lest I lose control or hurt him. My entire resolve feels like a violin string, pulled far too tight, that will snap with the slightest touch.

“I-I can feel your pulse…”

John laughs. It jostles me inside him and sparks shoot up my spine. His hands move to the back of my neck. “I could feel yours…” He shifts beneath me, his hips pushing up then dragging down again. The friction is almost unbearable. “Although, I think you should start moving, please.” John pulls my head down for a kiss, wet and hard. My hips start to stutter forward almost involuntarily.

It’s different, this way. No less pleasurable, no less moving than when John was inside me, but it’s different. And new. Time loses all meaning, and I find myself unable to concentrate on anything but John’s arms around my back and the friction of his body on my penis, incredibly warm and snug. Vaguely I’m aware of him gasping and grunting in my ear, his thighs flexing around me. I bury my face in his neck, and it’s nearly as warm as the rest of him. His pulse throbs against my forehead. Against my forehead and around my penis and suddenly my climax overtakes me, surging up through my core and down my limbs as I pulse inside him. I am inside him.

When I come back to myself—I don’t know how long my mind shorted, but it did, in a flash of white hot pleasure that seemed to go for hours and yet was nowhere near long enough—John is cradling me and whispering nonsense in my ear. They might be actual words, I don’t know. He must have climaxed, even though I have no awareness of it, because I can feel cooling stickiness where our chests are pressed together and every few seconds his body clenches slightly around me. An embarrassing, guttural sound escapes my lips. I’ve never made these noises before John.

“You alright?” John gasps breathlessly after a few moments. I release then that I’m shaking slightly, even though I’m not the slightest bit cold. The entire experience of sexuality should be embarrassing, should be _mortifying_ , but as I lie shivering in John’s arms, my penis softening inside him, I find that no greater pleasure exists than being stripped bare in front of him.

“Sherlock?” John’s hand makes its way into my sweaty hair.

“Yes,” I manage. My brain is suddenly flooded with a wave of intense contentment and exhaustion and a bone-deep twinge of loss, because we won’t be able to stay this way forever. My chest sears, harder this time. _NO_. I push my forehead hard against John’s neck, feel the as the throb ebbs and slowly returns to normal. I will not wallow in this, not while John is here. Not in these moments when he is mine. And it won’t be like this forever. He said. John has never lied to me, not when it matters.

“Heh,” John pets my head, his fingertips rubbing against my scalp. “You’re brilliant.” His calf crosses over the back of my thighs. “Absolutely brilliant.”

I don’t move. I can’t. And I never want to.

***

When I awake, the small room is lit by the harsh, bare lamp on the particle-board bedside table. My head is still in the crook of John’s neck but he’s propped up slightly against the cheap pillows. My chest and groin are both covered in sticky, drying semen, and it should be objectively uncomfortable, but I find I don’t mind it in the least. John’s fingers are twisting in my hair, which must be a mess.

I glance upwards, wanting to see John’s face but unwilling to move from my current place in his arms. He is staring straight ahead, eyes watching nothing. His face is set and determined, as if he just made an incredibly trying, if necessary, decision.

I feel my body tense and ice pool in my stomach. I close my eyes, and run over everything I’ve observed since waking a few moments ago: John does not look happy, however he is still in my bed, and his arm is still around me and his fingers are still lovingly stroking my hair, our bodies are still pressed together. All indications that his discomfort is not directed at me, or us, but I’ve learned assuming where John is concerned can be dangerous at best.

John of course, perfect, wonderful John, immediately senses that I’m awake and discomforted. His palm presses against my head and his other hand reaches to grip my forearm where it’s lying across his (also sticky) belly. His eyes, however, remain locked forward, staring at something no one else can see on the wall across from the bed.

“You’re so warm,” is all he says.

“John…”

“You’re so warm,” his eyes narrow, briefly. “I don’t know why, but I always thought you’d be cold. Like your toes. Or marble. But you’re not.” John huffs, just a short puff of air out his nose. “And now that I know, everything else is freezing. It’s like ice, outside.”

I don’t say anything; I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say. His words sound both loving and accusatory, critical and affectionate. John is a world of contradiction.

“I’m staying.”

A million thoughts push through the fog in my brain—most of them deeply unpleasant at how terrible such a decision will most likely end—but when I try to push myself up he holds me in place. John is remarkably strong. I always knew, but it feels different when he’s using his strength to hold me against him. To keep me by his side.

“I’m not going back. I won’t. I can’t,” his fingers start stroking again. “We’ll figure it out. We’ll call your brother in the morning.”

“John…”

“No, Sherlock. I’m staying. Always.”

His tone brooks no argument. There are none I want to give him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This made me really hungry for some Indian food, guys.
> 
> SEXY.


End file.
